Passion's Mistral (21 page)

woman. He also asked how she had found out about the engagement.

“Do you think I have only one spy in sweet Julian’s camp, Pierce?” she snorted.

“You’re going to let him marry her, then?”

“Oh, yes, most assuredly,” she answered brightly. Squeezing the bulb of the perfume bottle one last time,

she set the crystal on her dressing table. “I think seeing the name Silkie O’Reilly on a tombstone when he

visits her everyday will be a constant reminder to him that I am not to be toyed with.”

A shudder of anticipation raced through Pierce’s body. He had no doubt Celeste would have Julian’s

future bride murdered—before the man’s very eyes if at all possible—and the thought of Julian suffering

pleased him. Such suffering would not make up for all the years Pierce had been made to endure

Celeste’s savage reaction to Julian not towing the line, but it would be worth it to know the great man

was being put in his rightful place.

A discreet knock on the cabin door sent Pierce to the portal. He opened it to find the steward standing

there with an armful of linens.

“We didn’t ask to have the bed changed,” Pierce complained.

“Too bad,” the steward said. “A change has been ordered.”

As the linens fell away to reveal a semi-automatic pistol pointed directly at his chest, Pierce took one step

back. He never took another before the hollow-point bullets ripped into his flesh, through his body and

plowed into the surprised face of Celeste Dubois.

The sky overhead was turning a darker gray as the steward walked down the steps of the Lear and

climbed into the waiting sedan that had brought him to the jet.

“In for more rain, eh, old man?” the driver inquired as he put the car in gear.

“Looks a bit like home, don’t you think?” the steward countered. He pulled out his cell phone, punched

in a number then put the expensive little gadget to his ear. When the call was answered, he told the party

on the other end that the job had been done.

“I am so pleased,” Edwina Bellington said. “Do hurry home, Reginald. I hear a hurricane is headed for

that part of the world.”

When she rang off, Edwina sat down at her writing desk and signed the solicitor’s papers that would give

her entire portion of the Bellington estate to her adopted son Anthony. For the last two days, she had

listened to the solicitor give her a breakdown of Clive’s estate, what was left of Albert’s and was stunned

to learn the amount registered in the billions. Along with that bit of information had come another.

“Sir Clive kept a safety deposit box with information he believed you had the right to see should he

precede you in death,” the solicitor had explained. He handed Edwina a key. “I believe there might be

papers you would not wish the tabloids to get into their smarmy hands.”

An hour after the solicitor left, Edwina bade her driver bring the car around. Before the afternoon was

over, she had learned things that had staggered her to the core of her being. Not only had Clive kept a

very thorough journal of every sordid, repulsive conquest—either willing or forced—that he and Albert

had enjoyed over their lifetimes, as well as a meticulous diary with day-to-day happenings narrated in

vivid detail, he had an address book with a comprehensive list of people and places with which he had

contact.

Among that list was the new name and location of the adopted son she had begrudgingly come to love

over the twelve years she had been his mother.

Anger replaced the shock of her discovery then mortal shame that she had been either unwilling or unable

to see the abuse the boy had endured while in her care. Finding out the man she loved had methodically

violated Anthony, had ordered him killed and had nearly succeeded in his brutal quest, had brought

Edwina to the brink of madness. In her misery, she had taken the souvenir Clive had brought back from a

holiday jaunt to Germany and had placed it on her desk beside her writing pad, turning to look at it often

as she wrote a note to Anthony, begging his forgiveness for her years of neglect.

With Clive gone, his memory now a revolting one that brought hot bile to her throat, her unwilling

complicity in the torment of a child who wanted nothing more than to be her son, Edwina had no desire

to continue. She picked up that shiny little souvenir from Germany—that pretty little Beretta—placed it to

her temple and pulled the trigger.

It had been a long day and Silkie was bone-tired as she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom, pulling the

tails of her silk blouse from her skirt as she went. She had left her high heels in the mudroom, reveling in

the feel of the polished oak floor beneath the soles of her feet, and the sculptured pile of the carpet runner

on the stairs soothed her bare toes as she climbed. Unbuttoning the garment as she walked down the

hallway, she yawned widely, her body feeling the strain of a day meeting and greeting the Cay’s clients.

Pausing at the bedroom door, she flicked open the cuffs of the blouse and entered the darkened room.

Reaching to her left, she fumbled for the light switch.

Without warning, a strong, powerful arm enclosed her waist in a firm grip that pressed the air from her

lungs. A hand went over her mouth and she was lifted from the floor, her bare feet kicking out at her

abductor.

“Be still or I’ll make you regret it!” her attacker hissed in her ear.

Silkie went still as she was carried toward the bed. Sucking in air through her nose, she grunted as she

was tossed to the mattress and a heavy body fell atop her, pinning her to the silky coverlet.

“Do what I tell you and everything will work out just fine,” the man lying on her said. “You understand?”

Attempting to nod beneath the unyielding hand plastered over her mouth, Silkie felt herself being turned

over to her back. Unable to see the man now straddling her hips in the lightless room, she knew better

than to struggle.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth,” he told her. “I don’t think I have to tell you what will happen

if you scream.”

Quivering, her heart pounding in her chest, she lay still as she felt him shift his weight, dragging something

out from beneath the pillow. Eyes wide, Silkie felt her wrists looped together with a restraint she realized

must be the belt to her terrycloth robe. Her attacker dragged her arms up by the bonds then tied them to

the brass headboard above her. Before she could do more than whimper, a silken scarf was thrust

between her lips and tied behind her head.

“I’m not taking any chances with you,” he spat.

Helpless, at her attacker’s mercy, Silkie closed her eyes as he slid down in the bed, pushing her legs

wide with his knees and made quick work of tying her ankles to the footboard. The only sound she made

was when the coldness of metal touched her knee and she heard the click of scissors as he began cutting

away the expensive wool material from her body. She grunted with anger, her eyes flying up at the

indignity of having one of her favorite skirts ruined.

“Like you don’t have the money to buy a new skirt,” he taunted, running the sharp blade up the fabric to

expose her half-slip.

Within the space of five minutes or less, her attacker had bared her trembling body to his view and her

demolished clothing wadded in a ball he tossed into the wastebasket beside the bed. Naked, a cool draft

playing over her goose bump-speckled flesh, she groaned as he left the bed and she heard the snick of

the bedroom door lock engaging.

“Don’t want to be interrupted now, do we?” he chuckled as he flipped on the light.

Silkie blinked against the intrusion of the harsh light from the dual lamps perched atop the bedside tables.

For the first time, she got a good look at her attacker and a breath caught in her throat.

He was dressed entirely in black—silk long-sleeve shirt, leather breeches with a broad silver buckle at

his waist. On his feet were black boots adorned with a silver design at the toe. Halfway down his face, a

mask covered his forehead and nose, cheekbones and the color of his hair. Only his eyes showed behind

the black fabric and those pale amber orbs glowed with purpose.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said, his large hands going to the buttons of his shirt. “I’ve been waiting for

a moment like this. I’ve wanted you beneath me from the first time I saw you.”

Silkie flinched as he tore at the silk shirt, popping the buttons as he ripped the garment open. Her eyes

flared at the sight of a broad chest covered with thick dark curls. As he shrugged out of the shirt, she felt

a tremor pass through her lower belly for he was well built with washboard abs and chiseled pectoral

muscles that made her mouth go dry. As his hands went to the wide leather belt at his slim waist, she

looked away.

“Don’t like what you see?” he asked, his tone tight. “Well, that’s just too damned bad. You’re going to

get it whether you like it or not.”

Struggling now against the bonds that held her to the bed, Silkie refused to look at her attacker. She felt

the mattress sag as he sat down beside her. She heard him grunt then winced as first one heavy boot then

the other hit the uncarpeted floor. When he stood up, she tensed, listening as he made quick work of

divesting himself of the leather britches. When the mattress sagged once more she groaned, for the heat

of his nude body pressed intimately against her left side as he stretched out beside her.

“I want you to look at me,” he said, reaching out to splay his hand around the column of her throat.

Gently he caressed her slender neck then cupped her chin to turn her face toward him, his thumb stroking

the line of her jaw.

Silkie stared into his masked face, her gaze riveted to the merciless depths of his eyes. He was looking

back at her with a slight smile on his full lips. As she trembled, the smile became a knowing grin, the

gleam of his white teeth contrasting sharply with the deep tan of his skin.

“I won’t hurt you if you don’t give me any guff,” he promised. “Hell, you might even like what I’m going

to do to you, baby.”

A wild grunt of denial pushed from Silkie’s throat and she stopped breathing as the grin disappeared

from his face.

“You don’t think so?” he growled. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

He moved his hand to the center of her chest, his fingers spread so the tips of his thumb and little finger

grazed her nipples, linking both her breasts with an electrical surge of sensation that rippled like summer

lightning through her body.

Silkie groaned, hating the treacherous stirrings that were building within her. She felt a chill go down her

spine for she had seen the knowing look that had made his amber orbs sparkle.

“You like that, do you?” he challenged. He slid his hand over her right breast and cupped it.

Screaming her denial beneath the gag, Silkie pulled at her restraints, striving to arch her body from

contact with his. His low chuckle of amusement narrowed her eyes as she turned her head to glare at

him.

“It doesn’t matter whether you like it or not,” he said with a long sigh. “I’m going to enjoy it.” His tone

changed, the words becoming harsh as he said, “Let’s you and me have some fun.”

He turned his hand over and ran the backs of his fingers down the slope of Silkie’s breast. Arcing his

fingertips beneath the weight of her silken orb, he could feel the wild beat of her heart vibrating against

the callused pads.

“I can play you,” he whispered, lowering his lips to her ear, “like a finely tuned guitar.”

Silkie whimpered behind the gag wedged between her trembling lips. She closed her eyes, willing her

treacherous body not to respond to the warmth of his breath and pulled against the rough terrycloth that

bound her wrists.

“You pretend you don’t like it,” he said as he eased his hand over her breast, nestling in his hot palm,

“but you do. You revel in it, don’t you, little cat?”

Heavy moistness throbbed between Silkie’s spread legs and she jerked her bound ankles inward in a

vain attempt to hide her vulnerability. Sweat dotted her upper lip, ran down her heaving sides. The heat

from his nude body pressed down the full length of her left side and the musky smell of his cologne, the

powerful male scent of him, made her face feel as though she faced a roaring fire.

“Should I touch you where you crave it most?” he purred, squeezing her breast gently. Her groan of

pleasure-shame brought a low laugh from his throat. “I take that as a yes,” he chuckled.

Panting beneath the constriction of the gag, Silkie inhaled suddenly through her nose as his fingernails

grazed the areola of her breast before plucking at the nipple. Capturing the turgid bud between his thumb

and forefinger, he began working it gently back and forth. She could not stop the grunt of pleasure that

rippled through her.

His tongue spiraled around the outer rim of her ear then flicked swiftly into the sensitive center, eliciting a

responsive tremor that rippled violently through Silkie’s body.

“My little whore,” he breathed. “My sweet, helpless little whore.”

Once more the searing warmth of his palm flattened against her breast then began moving downward

over the sweaty plain of her chest. Past the smooth indention of her quivering belly, over the sleek

coarseness of her pubic hair, that demanding instrument of single-minded torture slipped unerringly